


Gimme That Sugar With The Sweet Talk

by twilightstargazer



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bellamy likes it when Clarke wears his clothes ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°), Cunnilingus, F/M, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Halloween, Secret Relationship, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-28 01:38:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8425702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilightstargazer/pseuds/twilightstargazer
Summary: “Are you supposed to be me?” he asks, delighted as he pulls on the strings of her hoodie.She swats him with the Iliad. “Well, it is pretty scary, right? If only I could have gotten the mask to go with it, then I’d be a true nightmare.”The mirth on his face doesn’t seem to be going away anytime soon. If anything, Bellamy looks like her showing up in too big clothing and eyeliner dotted across her face as freckles is the best thing that’s ever happened to him. or, we’re secret friends with benefits and you came dressed as me for a party and it's really, really distracting.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i just wanted an excuse to write smut. happy halloween ya filthy animals

“Hey, you’re coming to Halloween party next week, right?” Bellamy asks, skin still a bit damp and glistening in the moonlight as he ties off the condom.

Clarke frowns a bit, and stretches out, hand patting around blindly for the blanket. “Uh, I’m not sure. Exams are like right around the corner and-”

He stops her right there by yanking the blankets out of her hands. “Hey!” she says, pushing up on her forearms to glare at him. 

Bellamy just rolls his eyes, showing no signs of discomfort at standing in the middle of the room without a lick of clothing on. “You’re going to stay home and  _ study _ ? Come on, Clarke; it’s Halloween!” he grumbles before his grin turns wicked. “If you come over, I’ll be sure to have a special treat, just for you,” he all but purrs, sauntering over to the bed, only to dance out of the way with a bark of laughter as she aims a kick at him.

“Dick,” she huffs, and his grin just widens.

“That is one part of the treat, yes,” he nods, and not even she can successfully hide her grin as he slides a hand slowly up her calf.

“I don’t even have a costume,” she says weakly, “And I don’t have time to make one either. I have a spotter a day before.”

“Come as Hot Girl #3 for all I care,” he waves her off, “Or maybe string a bedsheet around yourself so we can match.”

She’s still hesitant, gnawing on her bottom lip. “I don’t know, Bellamy. I don’t think I’d be in the party mood after the spotter. All I’ll want to do is relax, maybe with a B rated horror flick and wine.”

“I can help you relax after,” he offers with a smirk, slinking between her legs. They widen to accommodate him of their own accord. “Or did you forget that’s why we started this thing in the first place?” He nuzzles the crease where her legs joins to her hip and Clarke sinks back down into the mattress with a sigh. “I don’t mind reminding you.” Her body jerks when he leans in close, close enough that she could feel his short bursts of breath brush across her centre, and she whimpers.

“Are you really trying to- ah- coerce me to come to your stupid party with sex?” she asks, breathless, sighing in relief when he swipes his thumb down her slit, spreading around the moisture that has gathered there. 

“Someone is coming, that’s for sure.” He presses a chaste kiss, just barely a brush of his lips, against her mound. “I’m playing to my strengths,” he snarks before dragging his tongue determinedly across her. She cries out loudly and tries in vain to bring her hips closer. “Is it working?”

“You’re an ass,” she breathes, eyes flickering shut as he finally gets into it, pleasure slowly coiling in her stomach.

For a minute there’s nothing but her harsh pants and the sound of his mouth smacking against her slick flesh, carrying her higher and higher, and then Bellamy pulls away, so abrupt that she actually cries out in annoyance.

“If it helps,” he drawls slowly, mouth and chin wet in a way that does nothing to help her current predicament, “I think you’d rather like my costume.”

This time her groan is one of frustration rather than pleasure. “Are you fucking- if I say that I’m coming to your stupid party will you shut up and put your mouth to a better use?” she asks through clenched teeth.

“Don’t get all pissy, babe,” he croons, sliding a hand up to tweak her nipple, “I’m just sayin’; I’ve come to quite like your company from time to time. Mostly when you’re like this of course.” He jerks his chin down at her naked body, splayed out and open to his liking, with her skin flushed as she squirms with want.

“Yeah well,” she mutters furiously under her breath, “I like you a lot better when you don’t stop in the middle of sex to have a chat. If you do that when I come to your damned party, I’m walking out.”

The boyish grin he gives her makes her stomach clench, and he ducks back down between her legs. “As you wish,” he murmurs into her skin, and then gives her absolutely no reason to complain, not stopping until her body is arching off the bed with high pitched keens.

 

* * *

Clarke has been sleeping with Bellamy for the past eight months.

There wasn’t any grand entrance into, no stumbling and hushed words. Just the two of them studying in his room one night, during which she dramatically flung herself back on his bed after failing to work out a calculus problem and biting out, “Fuck, I need to get laid.”

“Yeah, me too,” he had replied, easy as nothing while he battled with his history paper.

She doesn’t remember them doing anything other than exchanging a heated glance and a few more insignificant words, and then he’s getting her off twice with his hands before she falls to her knees to give him what had to be the world’s messiest blowjob, and that was that.

They’ve continued doing it for the better part of the year and none of their friends know.

Or at least she doesn’t think any of their friends know.

But most of them honestly thought that they’ve been fucking since they were sophomores, so Clarke doesn’t really know what to believe. All she knows is that no one has called them out on it thus far- not even when they very conspicuously snuck off to hook up in the bathroom stall of a bar that one time- which she’s going to pretend means that no one knows.

(However, everyone knows about her less than platonic feelings towards him. Everyone but the man in question that is.)

So what if she was halfway in love with the guy she’s been casually seeing for the past eight months?

Everything is fine, and normal, and this is totally not going to blow up in her face at all.

 

* * *

She honestly forgets about the Halloween party until Raven barges into her room, asking for help with her costume. She’s going as Wonder Woman, all hot pants and bustier top with the lasso of truth clipped onto her brace.

“What are you? Student zombie?” she asks, a single eyebrow raised. Clarke just flips her off and pulls herself out of bed with a groan.

“Fuck, I forgot that I promised I’d go to this stupid thing,” she grumbles as she throws her hair up in a messy bun. “I still don’t have a costume.”

Raven just harrumphs and fishes her phone from somewhere inside her top. “Well, I’m sure pinterest has some last minute ideas you can steal,” she says, already furiously scrolling.

“Yeah, whatever, go wild-” she cuts herself off when she spots a bit of bright red fabric sticking out from underneath a pile of clothes on her desk chair.

“Actually,” she begins slowly, picking her way over to the chair, “I think I’ve just found the perfect costume.” 

She grabs hold of the edge of fabric and tugs, revealing a crumpled Alpha Rho Kappa sweatshirt, several sizes too big and with the name ‘Blake’ emblazoned on the back of it.

Raven’s eyes flicker back and forth for a moment as she tries to piece together everything, but when she does, she flings her head back and  _ cackles _ .

“Bellamy is going to  _ die _ ,” she says gleefully and Clarke lets a smirk pull at her lips.

It doesn’t take much effort to put her costume together: she throws on the sweatshirt, tucking her hair up into a beanie before pulling up a freckles makeup tutorial on youtube and unearthing a pair of Nikes she used to run with. A classic Bellamy Blake look she thinks, especially when she rolls up the sleeves and grabs hold of her copy of the Iliad.

Raven can’t stop laughing the whole way over to the frat house, and she can’t blame her. She does stop for a moment to ask when did she manage to get her hands on his prized sweatshirt, and Clarke lies, telling her that he loaned it to her during their last movie night.

(In reality, he gave it to her to borrow after accidentally busting the buttons on her blouse last month and Clarke has conveniently forgotten to give it back.)

The party is in full swing when they get there, and while not everyone gets her costume, most of the fraternity does, Miller going as far as snorting beer out of his nose when he sees her.

“Blake is going to flip when he sees you,” he says, a sparkle in his eye that reminds her just how close their bedrooms are and just how thin are the walls. She wills herself not to flush.

“Where is he anyway?” she asks, crossing her arms. “He made me ditch what was surely going to be an entertaining evening of Netflix and chill all by myself to be here tonight.”

“He’s somewhere playing host. But I’m sure if you open up that book, he might come running.” He jerks his chin at the copy of the Iliad she has in her hands.

She just grins, and squeezes his shoulder. “Thanks Miller,” she says, and he tips his wig at her.

Raven’s already long gone, disappearing into the house, no doubt to find Gina and flirt aimlessly with her, so Clarke takes her time picking through the crowd.

She does find him eventually, talking with some lower classmen she doesn’t know and dressed in fucking Roman Centurion armour. He was right when he said she’d like his costume. She especially likes the lack of shirt and takes a moment to stare at his back, the hard muscle under smooth skin, the breadth of his shoulders, the dimples of Venus right above the curve of his ass.

Shaking herself awake, Clarke crosses the room and loops her arm around his shoulders like he does to her all the time. It’s definitely a lot more difficult to do being a head shorter, but she persists, and drags her finger over his bicep as she says, voice pitched low to mimic his, “Hey Princess.”

He turns to face her, eyebrows scrunched together and then-

And then he laughs so hard that she’s afraid he’s going to suffocate.

It's the kind of Bellamy Blake laugh she's only heard on a handful of occasions. A knee slapping, eye crinkling laugh that takes root in his stomach and blooms in his chest, leaving her pink with pleasure.

“Are you supposed to be me?” he asks, delighted as he pulls on the strings of her hoodie.

She swats him with the Iliad. “Well, it is pretty scary, right? If only I could have gotten the mask to go with it, then I’d be a true nightmare.”

The mirth on his face doesn’t seem to be going away anytime soon. If anything, Bellamy looks like her showing up in too big clothing and eyeliner dotted across her face as freckles is the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

Clarke pinches the inside of his bicep because, well, there’s a lot of skin on display and she can’t help herself, and then says, “I’m going to go get a drink.” 

She turns on her heel, already halfway to the kitchen before remembering to look over her shoulder and ask, “Want anything?”

Except then she sees the look on his face as he looks at her and the words die in his throat.

Or, more specifically, she sees the way he’s looking at his name, bold across her shoulders.

No longer does mirth cover his face, but something different, something darker, that has her insides turning molten and a current buzzing underneath her skin, like a livewire while he looks at her with unconstrained hunger.

She ducks into the kitchen to get her drink before she does something stupid. Like shove him up against the wall right then and there.

Luckily there’s a line for the keg, giving her some time to catch herself and cool down. It doesn’t stop her from downing at least half her cup of beer before heading back out into the party.

Bellamy is exactly where she left him, arms crossed over his admittedly impressive chest, and when she comes back into his line of sight, he looks her up and down in a way that fans the flames licking at her skin.

She squeaks when her pulls her closer, his grip mean on her hips for a moment before his palms slowly slide over her backside to tuck into her back pockets. He pulls her into him, head lowering in order to press featherlight kisses to the curve of her cheekbone, and Clarke curls her fists against his chest, not caring that they were being more than a little obvious right there in public, not caring that anyone can see them.

“I’ve been look for this all over,” he murmurs, tugging gently at the sweatshirt with one hand while the other squeezes her ass. She sighs into his neck, trailing a finger down his sternum.

“You loaned it to me, remember?” she says with a quirk of her lips, voice pitched low. He whines when she scrapes the blunt edges of her nails down his chest, and leans further to nuzzle he juncture of her shoulder and neck.

“Course I remember,” he says gruffly, pressing into her, “You attacked me in the library.”

Clarke splutters. “ _ I  _ attacked  _ you _ ? I think you got it mixed up, mister.”

“Nope,” he stays resolute, “You lured me away from my work with your feminine wiles. It’s your fault.”

“My bad,” she says dryly, “You definitely weren’t eager and ended up ripping my shirt in two.”

“I’m always eager around you,” he mutters, making her shiver, especially when he bites down on her collarbone.

She tries her best to ignore the subtle implications hidden beneath his words. “If you really want your shirt back you can take it. After the party though,” she leans in close to whisper the next part, teeth grazing the shell of his ear, “I’m not wearing much under it.”

The hands on her hips spasm, and just the barest hint of a groan manages to reach her ears before he pulls back to run a critical eye over her form. The hand on her back slides up, up, up, before pressing between her shoulder blades, finger tracing the curve of his name. “Keep it,” he tells her, and Clarke isn’t sure if she shivers because of the heat of his palm or the look in his eye. “You look good in it, Griffin.”

It takes her a moment to gather her bearings- they don’t do  _ this _ , never are quite so open and visible, but for some reason it sends a thrill through her- and shoots him a shaky smirk. “It’s not that hard to look better than you, Blake.”

The heat is masked by a cocky look and Bellamy says, “You’re such a brat,” before smacking her ass and pulling away.

Clarke isn’t sure if things get better or worse as the night wears on.

For one thing, Bellamy seems unable to leave her side. He starts the night off with an arm around her shoulders as normal while she talks with people and does her best Bellamy impression.

They’ve been friends for years now, close in way that she isn’t with anyone else, and not just because of the sex. He’s her best friend, she realises with a start, in the middle of a rant about the Library of Alexandria where she’s just bullshitting half of her facts. Her very best friend here, who she knows from cover to cover, just like he knows her, and the thought makes her bite back a smile, glancing over at him from under her lashes.

The lust from before has softened into something else, not quite gone, but placed on the back burner as the softness grows and grows as the night passes.

She has goosebumps, and it’s not just from his hands brushing up against her, slipping from her shoulders to her waist, then her hips, fingers dragging everywhere, especially over the curve of the ‘B’ in his name, as they engage in a game of chicken, trying to see who will cave first.

“Have I mentioned how much I like your costume?” he whispers in her ear as they watch a game of beer pong. He’s pressed against her, all solid muscle and heat that she can feel through the sweatshirt while his fingers drum against her hips. His tongue flicks the shell of her ear, uncaring of who sees them, and she leans into his touch.

Clarke hums happily. “I like yours too,” she says, letting her hands dance up his side, making sure to graze the spot under his ribs where he’s most sensitive. Bellamy hisses, and the hands on her hips clench.

“Although,” she continues, acting as though she didn’t notice his reaction, “I don’t like the lack of shirt.”

“Oh?” he says, surprised, flexing against her back. “I thought that would have been your favourite.”

She chuckles. “Don’t get me wrong,” she starts, before turning in his arms to face him properly, “I do love it quite a lot. But I don’t like that that everyone else gets to see it.”

The heat is back in his eyes, and his voice is hoarse when he asks, “And why is that?”

She would love blame the alcohol she’s been drinking all night, but she’s nowhere near drunk and besides, it’s all 100% her when she says:

“Because you’re  _ mine _ .”

Bellamy closes his eyes and groans, letting his head drop in the space between her shoulder and neck, mouth warm and wet on her skin, making her shiver.

“Fuck, Clarke,” he groans, pulling her closer and she deliberately rubs against him, “You’re killing me here.”

She grins even though he can’t see it and presses a swift kiss beneath his jaw. “I distinctly remember someone promising me- what was it again?” she ponders, letting her hands slip to his belt and he pulls back to stare at her. “Oh right, a special treat, just for me.”

The look he gives her is obscene, and this time she doesn’t even repress the shudder that dances down her spine.

“Fucking minx,” he grunts, grabbing her hand and pulling her through the throngs of people as they head to the stairway. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“I’m doing no such thing,” she faux gasps, even as she rubs herself against him as they stumble up the stairs. Bellamy swears again, this time pulling her in front of him, grinding against her in a way that Clarke thinks she might just melt into a puddle, right then and there.

Eventually they do make it to his room, stumbling against the door. His hands have found their way underneath her hoodie while hers trace patterns across his exposed chest, lingering on his sternum, resting a closed fist against his heart. She can feel it, a rapid pulsing beneath her fist, almost in time with hers, and she kisses him harder.

They do get inside soon enough, and that’s when he slows them down a bit, taking her face in both his hands as he kisses her, thoroughly, languidly, softly, so heartbreakingly tender that she feels her throat clog up.

“Hey,” he says, pulling back and nosing her cheek. Clarke opens her eyes and the world is a little bit bleary, the edges of her vision soft and filled with nothing but Bellamy. She squeezes his bicep and smiles dopily back at him.

“You’re, uh- you’re my best friend. You know that?” he says, a little bit shy, even as he slides a knuckle across her ribs.

It’s not just a best friend he means, and Clarke gets that, getting it from the way his tongue wraps around the word, so carefully, how the edges are soft and vulnerable and she nods once before leaning up to kiss him back.

And though he doesn’t have to do it, not when she already knows exactly what he means, he still mumbles against her lips, “You’re mine too,” and it sends a bolt of heat right down her spine.

She breaks the kiss this time, letting her hands fall first to his belt, tracing a line where his skin meets his ridiculous costume, and then lower, cupping him in her hands, hard and hot and ready, squeezing gently.

“Good,” she says firmly, watching him steadily as she does it again, this time eliciting a groan from him. “Now get this off.”

His smile is nothing but a glint of teeth in the dark. “Yes ma’am.”

Clarke already feels like she’s about to combust, wound up from his teasing all night, and hurries to kick off her shoes and jeans while he struggles with the row of clasps and hooks holding his costume up. He swears when she’s down to just the sweatshirt and her underwear, her own hand drifting to the juncture between her thighs to grind on, to alleviate some of the pressure building there. Fire licks up her spine and she does it again, wondering if it was possible for the two of them to burn the house down. It certainly felt like that.

“Tease,” he grunts, tripping over his own feet when she flicks a finger beneath the edge of elastic. His hands catch on her waist, and he throws her none too gently on the bed. “Fucking tease.”

His mouth crashes into hers, all teeth and tongue and spit, while his fingers replace hers, unforgivingly rough against the lace, making her mewl into his mouth. 

Bellamy pulls back, lips red and swollen and Clarke snarls in displeasure- one that chokes off into a gasp when he suddenly drops to his knees, pulling her hips to the edge of the bed. He leans in, nuzzling against her, just the barest hint of teeth grazing her through the lace before he sits back on his haunches, looking up at her.

“Trick or treat?” he asks with an insufferable grin. She kind of wants to kick him in his pretty face.

“Really? Are you gonna fucking do this now?” she demands, thoroughly unimpressed. She’s squirming with want and need, aching for him to get back to business.

She receives a stinging slap to her inner thigh for that, and she squeaks, in pleasure or pain, she doesn’t know. “Mouthy,” he tells her, grin widening. His thumbs dig into her hips for a second before curling around the elastic band of her underwear. “Trick it is.”

Clarke doesn’t get to ask him what the hell it is he means by that because he wrenches her panties off, so roughly that she vaguely wonders if he’s ripped those too, and then seals his mouth over her, licking into her folds. She cries out when his lips close around her clit, fingers sliding against her skin as he barely brushes against her entrance. He groans against her, slipping one, then two fingers inside before licking her deep, leaving Clarke thrashing against his sheets.

He keeps on building her up, the match that lit her fuse, and it’s only a matter of time before she explodes into a supernova.

She’s almost getting to that point, the point where she can’t see anything, can’t hear anything, nothing except Bellamy all around her, the taste of his name sweet on her tongue as she repeats it like a prayer, urging him onwards, waiting for him to give her that final twist of his fingers that would have her-

And then he pulls back, ripping a cry from her throat as she scrambles up to glare at him.

He flashes her that same indolent smile, petting a hand over her soft stomach before lapping at her gently, a stark contrast to the way he was going at it previously. Clarke’s still embarrassingly wet, still feels that need crackling under her skin like electricity, though not quite as potent as before, and she sighs, relaxing back into the mattress as her hands drift to his hair.

They tangle in his curls, tugging slightly, and Bellamy makes a soft sound of approval, nipping the crease of her hip. Ever so slowly, the fire burns brighter and higher, taking her right back to the edge again, only for him to stop and pull her back down.

“Bellamy,” she whines, trying to lift her hips. They're made almost immobile by the muscled forearm thrown across them. “ _ Please _ .”

He just smirks at her, biting the flesh around her bellybutton with blunt teeth, even as his fingers continue to tease her. “Easy babe,” he murmurs into her skin, “Patience is a virtue.”

“I hate you.”

“Nah,” he smirks and then winks at her while his thumb rubs circles into her clit, “You don’t.”

He continues doing that for who knows how long, taking her to the brink before stopping and letting her float back down before jumping into it again. She wants to yell and curse at him, but it’s impossible what with the way she’s shuddering and shaking, every nerve ending on fire, every pore, every fibre, every molecule of her being just wanting him.

When he scissors his fingers, tongue dipping to twist inside her, she shatters apart with a wail powerful enough to rock the universe.

It takes her a few moments to find herself again, to realise that she must be hurting him with the grip she has on his hair, and when she lets go, he pulls back, still soothing her with the soft brush of his fingers.

Clarke beckons him closer and he obliges, mouth slick on hers when she kisses him, trying to lick the taste out of his mouth.

“Trick or treat?” she asks when they pull back. She tugs him so that he’s lying flat on his back. “Really?”

Bellamy grins at her when she lifts herself to straddle him, limbs still lose and sated. “I think it was fun.”

“Yeah, will I think you’re an idiot,” she grumbles, leaning over to grab a condom out of the nightstand.

He mouths at her breasts, swinging distractedly in his face. “Didn’t hear you complaining though,” he says smugly, jerking up with a muffled swear when she trails a finger down his cock in retaliation.

“Shut up,” she mutters, slapping the condom against his chest and leaning back.

“Didn’t hear much of anything really,” he continues, easily ignoring her as he tears it open with his teeth, “Except you screaming my name.”

Clarke feels herself flush all the way up to her roots. “I did not.”

“You did,” he says, rolling it on, before looking up at her with a wicked smirk. He runs a finger over her mouth, raising up on his forearms and saying, “You like when I make you beg for it.”

She pushes him back down on to the bed with a harrumph. “Dick,” she snarks, gripping the hem of the sweatshirt she still wears. Her hair has long tumbled free of the messy bun she put it up in, and tickles her shoulder where the sleeve has slipped down.

A hand on her wrist stops her and she quirks an eyebrow up at him, he can’t seem to meet her eyes as he rumbles out, “Leave it on?”

She smirks but lets her hands fall away, brushing them over his muscles. “Alright then.” She laughs a little as he watches in fascination as she takes off her bra without removing the shirt, and then sneaks her own hand up to tweak her nipple.

He groans and wrenches his eyes shut. “You’re insufferable,” he bites out through clenched teeth, hissing when she rubs herself over him.

“And you like it when I wear your clothes,” she says on a gasp, slipping down an inch on him. Clarke leans in close, pulling at his earlobe with her teeth. “You like it almost as much as I like you, quote unquote, making me beg for it.”

His hands are tight on her waist, and Bellamy snarls when he flips them over, landing her on her hands and knees while he kneels behind her, the heat of his thighs searing into her. Gently, he gathers her hair into a fist, letting it rest right against his name, the sweatshirt hanging loose off her petite frame. It makes her shiver, body arching into him.

He slides in with one quick thrust and they both groan, Clarke at the feel of being full and Bellamy feeling her cunt clinging to every inch of his cock.

Her fingers grapple with the sheets, cheek pressed into a pillow and mouth hanging open as she gasps for breath when he pulls out, only to thrust back in mind numbingly slow.

“God, you look so good like this,” she hears him groan into the night while his hips snap furiously into hers. She finds herself pressing back into him, unrestrained moans spilling out of her mouth at each move.

His head falls forward, and she hears his harsh pants right next to her ear. “You  _ feel  _ so good like this.”

She keens, muscles quivering, “Bellamy,” she groans, long and drawn out, the only word she seems able to say at the moment. Her heartbeat roars in her ears.

“ _ Bellamy _ ,” she tries again, eyebrows furrowing, “ _ Please _ .”

“What do you want, Clarke?” he asks, free hand palming her breast through the shirt, “What do you need?”

“Touch me,” she whimpers, eyes closed and he smirks, trailing his hand over her skin,

A hand snakes between their joined bodies, thumbing at her clit and she cries out, twisting her head to the side to try and kiss him. He obliges, desperate himself, and the kiss is more tooth than lip.

His other hand doesn’t move from atop the solid black lettering, the heat of it soaking through the thick material of the sweatshirt, as though he wanted to sear the name into her- his name into her- and Clarke shudders with it, clenching around him. 

Used to reading her body’s cues, Bellamy knows she’s almost there, just waiting for that final push and all it takes is him pulling out, almost completely, and slamming back into her while grinding down on her clit, and she’s gone, his name a mix of a shriek and a sob dropping from her lips.

It feels like she’s floating, surrounded by starlight, and the only thing tethering her to earth is Bellamy, his hand now holding onto her tightly, keeping it still as he seeks his own release, the aftershocks of her own orgasm getting him there.

Her knees give out when she comes back down, and she groans, hearing him chuckle behind her. It takes some maneuvering to untangle their limbs, and when he flops down besides her, she curls into him, tracing the sinews of his neck, like she always does in the aftermath.

“You good?” he asks, throwing an arm around her waist and pulling her close. His lips find hers, kissing her deep and slow until they’re interrupted by her yawn.

“Shut up,” she mumbles, smacking him in the chest. It does nothing to wipe the smug look off his face.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face did.”

“You like my face.”

“I like  _ you _ .”

Bellamy softens at that, and takes his time tangling their fingers together, bringing them up to his mouth. He brushes his lips against her knuckles in a soft kiss. “I like you too,” he tells her, “And I meant what I said before.”

“Good,” she says, a smile threatening to split her face in two. She tucks her face into his side, content with just breathing him in for a moment. 

“I lied before,” she says after a pause, twisting to throw him a cheeky grin. “You’re not getting your sweatshirt back.”

He heaves a dramatic sigh and then says as if it’s some great burden, “Well, I guess if you keep stealing my clothes then I better give you an incentive to keep taking them.” His hands drag across her stomach and rolls to settle between her thighs.

Clarke cups his cheek, the sweet smile that pulls at her lips oddly at contrast with the mischievous glint in her eyes. “Are you saying you’re going to rip all my clothes off me from now on?”

Bellamy swipes another quick kiss from her, grinning toothily. “That is  _ exactly  _ what I’m saying.”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://hiddenpolkadots.tumblr.com/)


End file.
